


Into the Fastness of his Foes

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, trying to bypass the need for hover eagles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"…aided by the very darkness that Morgoth had made he came unseen into the fastness of his foes." <br/>Fingon's experience of rescuing Maedhros.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Fastness of his Foes

Exhausted, Findekáno scrambled up yet another rocky scree slope. It was slow going, and every trudging step was an effort. He shivered, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. He blinked the dust from his eyes and swallowed, his mouth dry. There was a strange, dark haze that lay over all of Angband, a poisonous choking fog. This darkness was not like the darkness of the star-strewn sky as they had crossed the Ice, nor was it like a cloudy night in the time of either the Trees or the moon. It seemed somehow flat, and reduced visibility to mere outlines and indistinct shadows. At first he had been glad of the cover it afforded from any eyes that might be watching. But as the hours and days wore on, it began to take its toll on him. His eyes burned, and his throat itched, and there was a cloying, bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Water was scarce, and Findekáno had begun to long for it, but held out little hope of finding more than an acrid-tasting trickle of a stream in this stony grey wasteland. But he knew, with a horrible urgency that drove him on, that if he was suffering, then Maitimo must be subject to something much worse.  _Unless Maitimo was already dead…_  No. He would not let his thoughts stray in that direction.

He peered through the gloom, trying to see. There was something looming up ahead of him, something large… a cliff-face perhaps? He looked up at the sky. It would be night soon, or at least he thought it would. He was still disorientated by the new day lengths, and it was difficult to see the sun or the moon as more than blurred bright patches anyway, in this fog. But by now Findekáno was stumbling with tiredness, so he decided that below the cliff might be a good place to stop for the night. The rock wall offered some measure of shelter, and at least it was something  _new_ , that he was certain he hadn’t seen before. For several days now, a suspicion had been growing in his mind that he was going in circles. But when his world contained only mist and rocks, it was very difficult to either confirm this or refute it.

He sat down heavily on a rock near the base of the cliff, easing his pack onto the ground. He allowed himself a few sips of water from his flask and looked about him. He was suddenly very aware of how completely alone he was. The silence seemed to press in on his ears in the flat greyness, and he longed to hear _something_ , even if it was only his own voice. He fought against the desire, but very soon it became stronger than the fear of being caught. He unlaced his pack, picking up the small harp strapped to its outside, and plucked a few notes experimentally. There was no sudden attack, no hordes of orcs pouring out of the mist. The instrument was even mostly in tune. He licked his cracked lips, and began to sing, playing the melody on the harp. It was a rather silly song, a nursery rhyme from his childhood. Maitimo had taught it to him. Findekáno’s voice sounded thin and weak, even to his own ears. He cleared his throat and sang a little louder, gaining confidence. He felt a little better already. He got to the end of the song, and was about to begin again when he heard another sound. Immediately, he was on guard, quickly standing and drawing his sword. Had it been his imagination? An echo? Or had someone – or some _thing_  - found him? He listened intently. It was very, very faint, but there was definitely a sound. Was it… singing? No, it couldn’t be. But it was. It was the same song he had sung, and if he strained his ears he could even make out the words. And the voice. A very, very familiar voice, although strangely distorted, as if broken and unused. Maitimo’s voice. Findekáno would have known it anywhere. It could not be any other.

Suddenly fuelled by hope and joy, Findekáno turned in a circle, staring around him to try to locate the source of the voice. The fog and the echoes of the cliff made it difficult to tell where it was coming from. But he couldn’t see anything, or anyone. It was definitely just him there. Bitter disappointment came over him, an almost physical pain in his chest. He must just be hearing what he wanted to hear. It could not be Maitimo. There was no one else there.

And he may have accepted this, had it not been for the fact that the sound of singing  _continued._ Again he stared around him, cursing the unnatural gloom and the gathering darkness of evening. Nothing. It was only then that he thought to look  _up_. There, on the smooth cliff-face, was something that was certainly not stone. A figure? There was a bright smudge of something red, harsh in the grey light. Findekáno leaned back, squinting upwards. Yes, it was certainly Maitimo. But how had he got up there? And what was he standing on? One arm was raised above his head. Slowly, the grim realisation dawned on Findekáno. He was not standing on anything. He was chained to the rock by his wrist, and Findekáno could only imagine the pain he must be in. As he looked, the singing stopped.

“ _Maitimo!_ ” he yelled, all thoughts of secrecy gone. “Hold on! I’m coming to get you down!” It was only then that he realised how ridiculous the words sounded, like a cruel joke. He had spoken without thinking, his mind reeling. But how would he get up? He went to the base of the cliff, running his hands along the stone. It was perfectly smooth, and curved outwards a little from the ground, giving a slight overhang. He could see nothing that could be used as a foothold to even start climbing it, let alone anything to grip onto on the way up. He looked to his right and left. The cliff extended as far as he could see in either direction, vanishing into the mist.

Findekáno walked backwards until he was a short distance from the cliff, and looked up again to where his cousin was trapped. He tried to think logically. There must be a way… suddenly he heard Maitimo’s voice from above, answering him.

“Findekáno! There is no way up!”

Findekáno realised, with a sickening lurch, that it was true. But no, he would not accept it. As much for his own reassurance as for Maitimo’s, he shouted up the cliff again.

“No, Maitimo. Don’t say things like that. I’m on my way. The… the pain will be over soon. Don’t worry.” Even to Findekáno, the words sounded empty. But nothing could have prepared him for what Maitimo said next.

“Findekáno… please. It hurts. There’s only pain. So much pain. Kill me, Findekáno. Please, do this, for me.”

“What?” Findekáno’s mind whirled. This was not right, this was not how it was supposed to go… “No, Maitimo, don’t say things like that. I’ll find a way. I promise. And there will be no more pain, you will heal, and we can go home…” he tailed off. They both knew that going home was not an option. 

Again he heard the voice of the indistinct figure above, the sound filled with suffering. “Please, Findekáno. Please make the pain stop. I just want to die. That’s all I want.”

Findekáno was silent, tears in his eyes now. He knew that Maitimo was right, there was no way up, and a quick death would be a kindness. And yet, how could he do it? How could he have the strength? Suddenly every memory of Maitimo he had, happy times and arguments and reconciliations all flowing together, was flooding through his mind. He tried to push them away, to think of what must be done. Slowly, he drew out his bow.  _This is the right thing to do_ , he told himself. _Maitimo is in pain. He wants this._

He nocked an arrow, slowly and deliberately. Bending his bow, he squinted upwards, trying to see more clearly in the dullness. He wished he could still his trembling hands. He was a good shot, but this was worlds away from hunting in the woods outside Tirion, or helping his younger brothers with target practice, or fighting orcs. He hesitated. It was starting to become very dark now, and all he could see of Maitimo was a pale outline against the grey rock face, and a flash of red hair. What if he missed? What if the arrow only wounded him? Even if it only went a little astray, it would still cause Maitimo even more pain, unimaginable pain. Findekáno delayed, steeling himself, taking deep breaths to try to calm down. He could do it. He had to do it. Almost out of habit, he spoke a prayer to Manwë, words falling into the vertical void that the arrow would have to cross.

“O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”

But no, thought Findekáno. Manwë was not listening. And Manwë had had no pity for the Noldor, not for a long time, of that he was sure. He stood there, frozen to the spot with indecision, every muscle tense as the bowstring in his hand as he hesitated. He would do it. He could do it. But just as the string left his fingers, he felt a great wind about him, lifting his hair, tugging at his clothes, so strong it nearly knocked him to the ground. For a moment he lost concentration, and the arrow went wide, striking the rock several feet to the right of where Maitimo was. It fell to the ground with a clatter. He looked up into the sky, drawing his sword again. He had just time to see the shape of an enormous bird, an eagle, parting the mist with the wind raised by its wings. Its very presence seemed to make the air a little clearer. But before he could think any further, strong talons were grasping him, scooping him up with surprising gentleness and dexterity. Then the ground was falling away below him, wind blowing his hair across his face.

He realised that this was Thorondor, the Lord of all the eagles of Manwë. It could be no other. They had often seen the eagles, back in their old lives, flying overhead and bearing news to the Valar, and he could easily recognise the greatest of them. It meant, he thought, that Manwë had heard him after all, or had finally decided to listen. He was not sure what to make of that revelation, and made up his mind to think about the full implications later.

Thorondor set him down on a narrow ledge in the cliff face, directly above where Maitimo was, just wide enough to stand on. He hadn’t seen it from the ground, but this, he supposed, was where  _he_  had stood when he put Maitimo there. He edged along the ledge, kneeling down carefully above where his cousin was. Reaching down slowly, he touched the hand that was bound to the rock by the wrist. The flesh was cold and felt like nothing alive should. It was a sickly grey colour, but swollen and marked by bruises, blue and purple and yellow and green, which extended all down his right arm and over his shoulder. There was dark dried blood at his wrist, caking the metal. As Findekáno held his hand, Maitimo tipped his head back, looking up at him. His grey eyes were bloodshot, his face alarmingly thin, and streaked with blood and grime, through which tears had tracked their pale lines. His expression was filled with so much pain that Findekáno could not stop his own tears. They ran freely down his face, but he barely noticed. Slowly, Maitimo raised his other hand, as if seeking reassurance. Findekáno clasped it tightly in his own, taking as much comfort from the touch as he gave. When Maitimo spoke, his voice was hoarse and cracked again, almost inaudible, but it held a slight touch of hope.

“You… you came for me, Fin? Are you real? Or is it a dream, like before?”

Findekáno smiled amid his tears. “It’s me, Maitimo. I’m very real. And I’m going to get you out of here, I’m going to get us both out. We’re going back. Just remember that.”

Maitimo’s face changed, contorting with pain again. “Go… go back? How can I go back? I’m broken, Fin.”

His words were like a knife in Findekáno’s chest. “N-nonsense” he stammered. “Don’t talk like that. It will get better. You’re strong. You were always stronger than me. Remember?”

Maitimo didn’t answer at first, but just stared up at him, eyes large and childlike in his gaunt face. Reluctantly, Findekáno released his hands, and felt around the metal shackle that bound Maitimo to the rock, searching for a lock, a join, anything that he could try to force. Nothing. The band was smooth and unyielding. He tried his knife, but it didn’t even leave a scratch. It was some tough metal that he could not even recognise. He had never been much good at metalwork, but he had never regretted it until now. Could he somehow pull the bond out of the rock wall? He felt around the place where the metal joined to the rock. It would be impossible without at least a hammer and a chisel, neither of which he had. He glanced back up nervously, painfully aware that every moment they stayed there made it more likely that they would be spotted, and then… he did not want to think about what might happen then. It would surely mean torture or death for both of them. And there would certainly be no one who would come to their rescue.

Maitimo’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “See? It’s no use. Please, Findekáno. Please… just kill me. Go back, if you can, make a life for yourself. I am dead already. But I beg you, if you ever cared about me, give me this. Please.”

Findekáno did not answer. He did not trust himself to speak.

And suddenly, he knew what he had to do. Maybe he had known it all along. He looked up at Thorondor, perching on the cliff top not far above. He inclined his head, regarding Findekáno with his piercing golden eyes. It was hard to tell, but he had the distinct impression that the eagle knew what he was planning, and understood his own part in it, possibly before Findekáno had even consciously thought of the idea himself. He looked back to Maitimo, hating himself for the pain that he was about to cause him. Findekáno clasped his left hand in his own again. “Maitimo,” he said. “Look away.”

“Findekáno, what - ”

“Just… trust me. I am doing this to help you.” He paused. “I’m sorry.” This last he whispered so quietly that he was not sure whether Maitimo had even heard him. He drew out his long hunting knife, checking the edge with his thumb. It was no longer as sharp as he would have liked, but it would have to do. He gritted his teeth.

The flesh of Maitimo’s wrist felt soft under his knife, almost as if it were dead and decaying already. Then he felt the grinding of metal against bone. He winced, looking down at Maitimo’s face, which was twisted with anguish, eyes squeezed shut, mouth forced open in a soundless scream. Findekáno looked away from his face. He knew he couldn’t stop now, must not stop. He must make this as quick as he could. He hacked and sawed determinedly on, feeling the bones grate togther and the flesh and sinews tearing. Both of his own hands were slick with blood now. His fingers were locked tightly around the knife lest it slip from his grasp, his joints cramping. Suddenly, the last thread of skin was stretching under Maitimo’s weight, tearing, breaking. Findekáno dropped his knife, lunging forward and grasping desperately at Maitimo’s other hand, trying to pull him onto the ledge. But it was no good, the blood made his hands slippery, and he had lost his balance. Findekáno teetered on the brink, and they were both slipping, hand in hand, falling… then suddenly Thorondor was there, soaring as close to the overhanging rock face as he dared, just below them. He timed it perfectly, and Findekáno and Maitimo fell onto his back, a tangle of limbs and feathers and blood. With an effort, Findekáno extricated himself, sitting upright. He found he could balance reasonably well, and he held Maitimo in his arms, clasping him firmly to his chest so that he would not fall. After a moment he felt his cousin’s body go limp. He had lost consciousness.

Findekáno grimaced, worry flickering within him. Maitimo had lost so much blood already, and his wrist was still bleeding freely. He took off his warm outer tunic, tearing it into strips and wrapping them tightly around the bloody stump where Maitimo’s hand had been. There seemed to be blood everywhere, bright against the pale skin of Maitimo’s bear chest, soaking into Findekáno’s clothes and Thorondor’s feathers. Findekáno was horrified, not by the blood – he seen enough of that – but by the fact that it wasn’t an enemy who had done this. It was his fault. He wondered if Maitimo would hate him for it, when he recovered.  _If_ he recovered. He pushed that thought away, concentrating on the manual task, the feeling of the rough cloth against his hands.  _If I bind it tight enough, it will keep the blood in. He will survive. He must survive. Let him survive, let it be good enough…_

When he was finished, he wrapped his heavy woolen cloak around them both, against the rushing, icy wind blowing over Thorondor’s back as they flew. Then he simply held Maitimo’s limp body tightly in his arms, feeling the ridges and valleys of half-healed gashes on his back, where the flesh had been cruelly torn. But he could feel a slow, irregular heartbeat against his own body, and he could hear Maitimo’s ragged, effortful breathing. What it meant, he thought, was that there was still hope, however small. But for Findekáno, in that moment, it was enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fingon’s prayer to Manwë is directly quoted from the Silmarillion, and is the only canon dialogue.


End file.
